


Consequences

by Tehri



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Hurt/Comfort, Parent-Child Relationship, Protecting Children, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 21:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12308055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: As many differences as there were between the Took- and Baggins-families, one major difference was how they raised their children - specifically dealing with misbehaviour. But there are reasons for everything, specifically for why the Bagginses would not lay hand on their children.





	Consequences

There were some hobbits in the Shire who were wont to gossip about particularly well-to-do families. It was certainly not a kind pastime, nor a useful one, but it was a pastime all the same; that the gossip unfailingly reached the concerned family’s ears seemed to fuel the gossip-mill even more.

The Tooks were a common topic for gossip-mongering – after all, with a reputation such as theirs, it would have been utterly strange if there was nothing to say and no theories as to why they were the way they were or how they had acquired both wealth and status. Even the Brandybucks could not quite reach that level, though they were spoken of a fair amount as well.

Perhaps the most uncommon topic was the Baggins-family of Hobbiton. They were respectable and quiet and kept to themselves, and those wont to conjure up new rumours found it hard to find anything to say that could not immediately be disproved. But once they found something, they clung to it desperately until the Head of the family himself dealt with it, usually in a public fashion. The Bagginses were not like the Tooks, or indeed the Brandybucks; they simply did not accept any sort of gossip about them. Tooks would laugh and sometimes even fan the flames to make the rumours about their family become even wilder. Brandybucks would shrug and ignore the matter entirely. But not the Bagginses. Indeed, there was only one rumour, a particularly cruel one, that they had not been able to quench through the years. It popped up every now and then, only ever in whispers here and there.

“Look at how well-behaved those children are,” some of the gossip-mongers would say. “Look at how well they listen to their father. They must be afraid of doing something wrong. Isn’t it awful? They know they will be heartily punished if they put even a toe out of line. Why else would they mind their parents in such a fashion? There’s well-behaved, and there’s simply plain frightened out of their wits.”

When Balbo Baggins became Head of the family and Master of the Hill, he put a few changes in motion. To begin with, he simply pruned the family tree, so to speak; he very purposefully removed his own father’s name from it, along with those who came before.

“He was no father to me,” he stated coldly when questioned on his decision. “And if I can be even a little better to my own children, then I will have done them a kindness that was never done for me.”

People naturally spoke of that. They wondered if perhaps the rumours had been correct, and if this was simply master Balbo’s way of dealing with past hurts. To remove names from one’s family tree was unusual, if not even unheard of; one could disown younger relatives, of course, but those relatives still remained on the family tree as small reminders that they were once kin.

Balbo would say nothing more on the matter. If his children did something they needed to be punished for, he certainly made sure they regretted their decisions up until that point. But he prided himself on one thing: he never raised his hand against them.

“A thrashing will only feed resentment and teach a child to fear their parent,” he said grimly once to the Thain; Fortinbras certainly had his hands full with his own son, and he’d taken the lad over his knee on more than one occasion. But he always wondered how on earth Balbo managed with five children without having to do so. “Words can hurt just as much, and I’d rather not have my sons and daughters flinch away from me if I so much as place a hand on their shoulder. But you are right in that they need to know they’ve done something wrong, and that they are being punished. A scolding certainly does not always help.”

“Do you set them to chores, then?” Fortinbras suggested. “What do you do, to make them listen to you so? Gerontius knows all too well what will happen, but he certainly can’t keep his fool self out of trouble.”

“It is a challenge, of course,” Balbo answered. “He knows what will happen, and he knows you will be angry with him. I do not doubt that he regrets it afterwards and wishes he’d never done anything, but there will always be that little voice telling him that maybe, just maybe, he could get away with it this once. And every time he does get away with it will simply fuel his behaviour. ‘I got away last time, so why not now?’ is what I would imagine goes through his head.” But he allowed himself a small smile as he turned his thoughts to his own children. “I set my children to do chores, yes. Anything I can think of that they do not enjoy or find utterly unpleasant. I speak with them and ensure they know just how disappointed or angry I am with them, and I confine them to their rooms for varying periods of time. During that time, I do not allow them to eat with the rest of the family, and their meals are more meagre than they usually would be. They are not allowed to speak with their siblings, or to write to anyone. It is usually quite enough to make them reconsider – they do so hate not being able to go outside. And if they attempt to sneak out all the same, I move them to a room with no windows and with a latch on the door, and I add a week to the previous sentence. Once that is over and done with, they are set to do chores for a month.”

“I suppose a drawn-out sentence makes more of an impression than a thrashing, when that is usually over with within a few minutes,” Fortinbras admitted. He thought to himself that it was just as well that Gerontius was _his_ son – the lad would never have gotten through even the first part of the sentence. “Though I wonder why you consider this to be harsh.”

“No child deserves to be struck,” Balbo said quietly. “Especially not by a parent.”

He needn’t say more than that; Fortinbras knew why he had pruned the family tree, after all, and had been more than furious on his behalf.

**\--**

Mungo Baggins carried on that tradition. He alone of Balbo’s children had been told of why there were no records left of those Bagginses that came before, and his father’s precise reasoning to why he’d never been allowed to meet his grandfather.

“I couldn’t risk the same happening to you,” Balbo told him earnestly when questioned on his choice. “Your grandfather had a bad habit of going well beyond what was deserved – I’ve a limp to show for that for the rest of my life, and I won’t have you sporting a matching one. That I could bear it until I was grown does not mean I’ll let the same thing happen to my own children.”

The words left a certain impression on Mungo. He’d been on the receiving end of his father’s temper before, and he had wondered sometimes why he was never taken over the old hobbit’s knee like other lads were by their fathers. Why, even his cousin Otto Boffin had his hide tanned occasionally, if he truly did something foolish. For a while, Mungo had even played a game with himself where he tried to push his father’s buttons until he really would get struck. But Balbo had never caved, not even once. He’d been angry, furious beyond belief, and there had been words spoken that were hard to take back. But never once had he laid hand on his son. And knowing why, Mungo felt more than simply grateful for not having succeeded with the point of his little game.

It was not long after he had taken over as Head of the family and Master of the Hill that he was given a chance to voice his opinion on the matter. His son, Bungo, had come with him on a visit to the Great Smials, and the lad had played with the Took-children for a time while their fathers discussed business in the Thain’s study. But it had not been long before the eldest of the Took-children, Isengrim, came running to fetch them. The lad had been out of breath after sprinting from the garden, but he had managed to gasp out that something had gone very wrong indeed.

“They put an apple on his head,” Isengrim said as they hurried away from the study. “And they took turns attempting to knock it off using slings and stones! If Isumbras and I hadn’t come when we did, I daren’t think what would’ve happened! He was out cold when we put a stop to it, but we don’t know how bad it was!”

“Where is your mother?” Gerontius asked grimly. “Is she with them?”

“Aye, she is. And the healer is looking after the lad.”

Mungo had never felt so uncomfortable before in his life. To hear that a stone had struck his son was bad enough, but to hear that the lad had actually been unconscious for a time had made his heart twist in his chest. And as they came into the garden and saw the three lads responsible – Isembold, Hildifons, and Isembard – it seemed that the situation was perhaps not one that a Baggins should be in at all. He’d scarcely glanced at the Thain’s sons, and rather made a beeline to his son’s side. Bungo was awake; the healer had cleaned the wound and was in the process of wrapping a bandage around his head. The lad didn’t struggle, but he gave his father a mournful look that spoke volumes – he wanted it over with so that he could hide in his father’s arms.

“Now, this is a sorry mess you’ve gotten into,” Gerontius cried as he paced in front of his sons. “What were you thinking, throwing stones at someone? Or were you perhaps not thinking at all? I thought I told you all to behave!”

“We were behaving,” Isembold protested, initially taking no notice of how his father’s brows knitted together. Protests were never received well. “We were just playing!”

“Perhaps I’ll put an apple on _your_ head, lad, and then pelt you with stones and see how you like it,” Gerontius snapped, noting with satisfaction how his son cast his gaze back to the ground. “And if one strikes you on the head and knocks you unconscious, perhaps I’ll state that it was all a game! Don’t you dare believe that I wouldn’t know it was your idea, Isembold Took! You are too old for this nonsense, and you ought to have a mite more sense than goading younger hobbits into going along with your daft ideas!” He turned his gaze on the two younger culprits when they sniggered quietly, and they stopped almost instantly. “And you two! Not only do you go along with your brother’s idea to torment another child, but you do not even attempt to stop it until it is too late! You are all more than lucky that Isengrim and Isumbras came along when they did, or perhaps you would have done more than knock another lad unconscious!”

Mungo, having at last been allowed to embrace his son, watched the proceedings with concern written on his face. The Thain had already been unhappy, knowing they would have to do business; they never did like each other, but they would never have wanted children to be drawn into their rivalry. To see that anger turned upon the three lads, whether they had done anything wrong or not, made his heart give an uncomfortable lurch. And Bungo, weeping quietly with his face buried in his father’s shirt, did not seem to feel any better.

“Isembold,” Gerontius said at last, beckoning his son forward as he stuck one hand into his pocket. “Come here.” When the lad reluctantly obeyed, the Thain removed his hand from his pocket and held out a pocket knife to him. “Take it. You know what I want you to do. One for each of you, and be quick about it.”

Poor Isembold stared up at his father with wide imploring eyes and, failing to see any chance for mercy, then turned his gaze to his mother. Adamanta stood quietly by and gave her son a mournful look and shook her head; there was nothing she could do when her husband was in such a mood. Gerontius was sparse with physical punishment, and only ever made use of it if his children had done something exceptionally foolish. Causing injury to another was certainly one such occasion, and one that had never come up before. But poor Isembold took the pocket knife and made his way through the garden to the willow by the pond at the north end. As he begun to cut off long switches from it, Mungo finally realised what was about to happen.

“Oh, Gerontius, surely you won’t,” he cried, paying no mind to the dark look sent his way. “For goodness’ sake, there is no need!”

“I will not let a cruel deed go unpunished,” Gerontius snapped. “Not even if the culprit is a child of my own!” He turned away again and waited until Isembold came back. Then he took the three switches from the lad and gestured for the children to line up by a nearby bench. “Breeches down,” he commanded coldly. “And don’t you give me that look, Isembold! If you did not want this to be done in public, you should have thought twice about your actions!”

Carefully disentangling himself from his son and allowing the healer to take hold of the lad, Mungo got to his feet. He wasn’t certain what he could do – one could hardly intervene with how another hobbit raised their children, not without causing more talk than it was worth. And while he did not care much for the Tooks, he could not stand idly by when mere children were about to be given the thrashing of their lifetime. But as he approached, Gerontius turned his eyes to him and raised an eyebrow.

“Seeing how it was your lad that got hurt,” the Thain said, still in the same cold voice, “it is only fair that you carry out the punishment.”

“How can you say that?” Mungo asked grimly. “How can you look me in the eye and say that to me?”

“Oh, I’d gladly do it myself.” Gerontius gave him a mirthless smile as he held out the switches to him. “But fact is, you have a right to this, and I oughtn’t to lay hand on them when I am still angry.”

“I’ve never laid hand on a child,” the Baggins protested. “You can’t ask this of me.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Gerontius stepped closer to him and grabbed hold of his hand, forcing him to take the switches.

“Sometime will have to be the first,” he growled. “And it may as well be now. It’ll teach the lads a lesson about forcing someone’s hand as well.” He smiled again, seemingly intending to be reassuring. “Get it over with, master Baggins.”

Mungo’s eyes strayed to the three lads by the bench, who were all staring at him with wide fearful eyes. His heart gave another lurch, and another glance to his son confirmed that Bungo had the same expression on his face. A part of him wanted nothing more than to spirit all four lads away, to do anything to put smiles on their faces again. There was a lump growing in his throat that he was only dimly aware of, but he was all too aware of all the eyes on him. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Mungo turned his eyes back to the lads. Isembold was as white as a sheet, and Hildifons and Isembard certainly did not look better.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mungo said grimly. “I’ll get it over with.”

And before anyone had a chance to react, he took firm hold of the switches with both hands, lifted one leg, and brought the branches down over his knee. With the force used, the switches began to break almost immediately. As though to drive the point home, he bent them until they cracked and broke apart, and then he tossed them before Gerontius’ feet.

“I’ve never laid hand on a child,” he repeated, the cold in his voice matching that of the Thain’s. “And I do not intend to start now.” He crossed his arms. Gerontius stared back at him with a rather alarming shade of red on his face. “What happened was an accident. Do I approve? Certainly not. Your sons do need to learn how to play safely, and to not bully others into going along with them. Yes, their actions caused an injury, but I do not believe it was intentional.” He turned his gaze to the children, who stood by and gaped at him. “I trust it _wasn’t_ , lads?”

“It wasn’t,” Hildifons cried immediately; tears had begun to brim in his eyes, and his gaze darted between his father and Mungo as though he worried that merely speaking would get him punished. “We never meant to-“

“Of course it wasn’t intentional,” Isembold insisted. “We just wanted to prove that we had good aim! We didn’t-“

“We didn’t mean to hurt him,” Isembard sobbed. There were already tears running down his cheeks, and he shook where he stood. “We didn’t mean to!”

“Well, there you have it. An unfortunate accident – anyone could have caused it if they weren’t thinking,” Mungo stated, giving the lads a small reassuring smile. “Far be it from me to tell another how to raise their children, but if I may give a small piece of advice, Thain Gerontius, the lads could do with a few days of confinement to their rooms. I am aware that this is not how you usually take care of matters, but I will have no part in that.”

And without another word, he turned away and went to pick up his son. Bungo clung to him like ivy to a tree, and Mungo carefully ran one hand through his son’s hair while he carried him away.

**\--**

Bungo never did forget how his father had refused to punish the three Tooks. And on the day that he had a small lad of his own, he began to question whether or not he could have done the same.

“How could you still refuse?” he asked his father one day. “You would do anything to protect myself and my siblings, but that time you would not do anything. Why is that?”

“As I said then, I’d never hurt a child before,” Mungo answered him. “I looked at them and saw that they were afraid, and you were just as afraid of me hurting them. I couldn’t do it, and I didn’t _want_ to do it.”

“My son is half Took,” Bungo sighed. “How on earth am I to handle him without taking to the same punishment as they use?”

“You raise him the way I raised you,” Mungo stated with a small smile. “Never let him doubt that you love him, but ensure that he will never want you to be angry with him. He should never have to fear that you will strike him – disappointing or angering you should be enough to keep him from foolishness.”

And it usually was. Bungo never so much as had to raise his voice against his son – he only ever needed to use a certain tone with him, and Bilbo would flush beet-red with shame and guilt. It was perhaps not half as good as the tone Mungo was able to use, but Bungo thought to himself that if it could keep a child that was half Took out of trouble, it was more than good enough. The fact that Bilbo was very much his mother’s son certainly didn’t mean that he did not adore his father, and disappointing or angering his father was always worse.

And Belladonna, while raised the same as her brothers, kept much to the same code as her husband – though not for the same reason. She would not argue with how he punished their son for misbehaving, though he thought he could sometimes see a vague glint of confusion or resentment in her eyes.

“I was soundly trounced for misbehaving when I was his age,” she told him once. “And I remember being switched once or twice. And look at me! I turned out quite alright.”

Bungo decided against contradicting her that time; he had seen how she flinched when her father looked at her just so. She loved her father so dearly, and yet it was clear that she never wished to have it happen again. No, he was firmly on the side of his own family in this matter; a child should never have to fear that their parent would strike them.

It was during a visit to the Great Smials when Bilbo was in his teens that Bungo was rather rudely confronted with how difficult it truly was to say no to a Took when they wanted to have their way. Bilbo had been rather exceptional as of late with his mischief, and Bungo thought that perhaps it would have been best to not to visit the Great Smials around Sigismond’s birthday. It would have been a suitable punishment indeed; fond as Bilbo was of his cousin, they certainly had a tendency to lead each other into all sorts of trouble. That they were normally able to get each other out of it again made little difference. But with two weeks before the birthday and then another two afterwards, it was difficult to believe that the lads would not cause any sort of mischief – especially with their ten years older cousin Adalgrim about.

While he had attempted to argue his case, he found himself outnumbered. Belladonna missed her family, and she had looked forward to a longer visit. And with the saddest possible doe-eyes of both wife and son turned on him, he simply could not say no.

“But so help me, Bilbo,” he’d said sternly when they carried their bags to the guestrooms in the Great Smials, “if you and Sigismond get into trouble, I _will_ take you straight back home, and you shan’t be back here for another year!”

He’d thought the message had come across crystal clear. For the first week, it seemed indeed that Bilbo and Sigismond kept well out of trouble. They only rarely strayed from the watchful eyes of their parents or aunts or uncles or cousins, and when they did, it was simply because they had found a new game to play. He’d never seen them so well-behaved before, and neither had Hildibrand, Sigismond’s father.

“Every time Sigismond behaves so well,” he said sadly, “I worry that he is about to get into some horrid mischief again. I feel awful every time I think that. Stars know I love my little lad, but I swear I only need to turn my head and look the other way for half a minute and he’ll have done something daft again.”

Bungo could only murmur in agreement. He preferred to give the lads the benefit of doubt – they never _meant_ to get into trouble, after all – but their impulse control was surprisingly poor. Bilbo was perhaps a little better than his cousin, though not by much. All Sigismond ever had to say was “don’t be such a Baggins”; an expression that, in Bungos’ private and never voiced opinion, needed to be buried about six feet below ground and never see the light of day again.

So when the door to the guestrooms flew open just before luncheon on the eighth day and old Gerontius Took came in, dragging Bilbo by one ear, Bungo was understandably both worried and exasperated.

“What has he done now?” he asked wearily, shooting a quick glance at Belladonna as she followed her father and son into the room.

“Thrown an entire damned box of important correspondence into the fire,” Gerontius snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo cried. He truly looked distressed, for he’d never had the misfortune of rousing his grandfather’s ire before. And it couldn’t help that his mother had done nothing to help him. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! It was an accident!”

He shut his mouth with a snap and a whimper when Gerontius only pinched his ear harder. Bungo gave his son a grim look.

“Did I not tell you, Bilbo, that I would take you back home if you caused any trouble?” he asked quietly, and Bilbo immediately winced and became teary-eyed at his tone. “Or did you think I was jesting?” He shook his head. “No, do not answer that. But do tell me what happened. And if I may request so, Gerontius, please release him or he shan’t be able to get a word out.”

There was a dangerous glint in the old hobbit’s green eyes – he did not like to be argued with, or told what to do. But though it was his possessions that had gone up in smoke, Bilbo was not his son. He reluctantly released the lad, who stumbled away from him while rubbing his ear.

“Siggy and I were-“ Bilbo began, and then flushed beet-red with shame when Bungo let out a loud groan.

“Why on earth is it that you always have to start with that?” Bungo asked in dismay. “Every single time, your explanations will without fail start with ‘Siggy and I’!”

“We were trying to think of something to do,” Bilbo persisted, choosing to carefully ignore the words about his dear cousin. “And Siggy said that grandfather had a book in his study about the Bullroarer, and that he’d never read it before, and I wanted to see it, so we went to look for it.”

“Without leave,” Belladonna added grimly. “While your grandfather was elsewhere.”

“We didn’t know where he was,” Bilbo protested earnestly. “And we only wanted to look at the book! We weren’t going to do anything else, and grandfather has said-“

“I have said that you may be in there without me if you do not touch anything,” Gerontius stated, the harsh tone of his voice making Bilbo wince again. “Which you did anyway.”

“Now, please, let him finish,” Bungo said sharply. “Or we shall not have it out of him until suppertime.”

Bilbo gave his father an almost grateful look before he continued:

“There was a very pretty carved box on the shelf, and Siggy picked it up. I said he shouldn’t, because what if we weren’t allowed to go in there again? But he took it anyway and said he only wanted to look. And I tried to take it back to put it back on the shelf, but he wouldn’t let go. And then grandfather came in while we were struggling, and he startled Siggy so much that he let go of the box, and…” He threw out his hands and gave Bungo a helpless look. “And I still had it in my hands, except I was startled too just as I yanked it back, and I managed to throw it over my head.”

“And straight into the fire,” Bungo finished for him with a sigh. “Well, this is a fine mess, Bilbo…”

“And the box flew open and the papers spilled into the fire,” Bilbo said, his face a perfect image of misery. “I didn’t mean to! It was an accident!”

“Sigismond,” Gerontius interrupted, “has already been taken to his parents. Hildibrand will see to his punishment. But Bella tells me she is reluctant to do anything without your input, Bungo.” He crossed his arms and fixed his son-in-law with a cold stare. “So I ask you – what shall be done about your lad? I’d take care of it myself, but my arms are not as strong as they used to be.”

Bungo certainly did not miss the implication in those words, and he felt as though he’d been dunked in cold water when he realised that his father-in-law must have asked Belladonna to carry out the punishment at first. And the only reason Belladonna had objected had been because she knew her husband’s stance.

“Allow me to get this perfectly straight,” he said quietly. “You are asking me to strike my son.”

“I am asking that you give him his due punishment,” Gerontius answered. “Any child in the Great Smials would get the same for their transgression – family or status does not matter.”

“It is not a question of family or status,” Bungo argued. “You are standing before me, having dragged my son by the ear into these rooms, and you ask me to strike him.”

“A paddling certainly seems to be the only way he is going to learn,” the old hobbit snapped back. “Belladonna has told me how you usually handle him, and while it is indeed admirable, it does not seem to have driven the point home!”

“And meanwhile you have Sigismond living under your roof,” Bungo stated in a deadpan tone of voice, “who gets trounced every time he misbehaves, and yet never seems to learn.”

“It is not for me to decide how my son punishes him.”

“And yet it is for you to decide how I punish Bilbo? Pardon me if I find this ridiculous.”

“A paddling isn’t going to kill him, Bungo,” Belladonna snapped. Her brows knitted together as she gave her husband an implacable glare. “But it may well teach him a lesson!”

“You cannot ask-“ Bungo began, but Belladonna cut him off:

“And I am not asking! Either you do it, or I will!”

Bungo’s heart sank. This was not something he could fix with words alone, not with two rather formidable and angry Tooks before him demanding that he dole out physical punishment. He’d argued with both of them before – it never did end well. And poor Bilbo looked fit to burst from the tension in the room. Though Bungo’s tongue felt like lead when he opened his mouth, he finally answered:

“Very well. Then I will do it. But I ask that you leave the room for now. You needn’t bear witness to this.”

He knew how dejected he sounded. He knew they could hear it too. But Gerontius simply nodded and turned, placed one hand on his daughter’s shoulder, steered her out of the room, and closed the door behind them. Bungo listened as their footsteps faded away down the passage before he turned to his son.

“Da,” Bilbo said in a very small voice. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve not been given a choice,” Bungo answered, knowing his voice matched his son’s. “So I fear I must tan your hide this time.”

He took the lad by the hand and led him over to the settee by the window. Without a word, he sat down and gestured for Bilbo to remove his trousers. Bilbo obeyed, though slowly and reluctantly, and as soon as both trousers and smallclothes were around his knees, Bungo took hold of him and pulled him over his lap.

Bilbo cried out from the first strike. By the fifth strike, he had started to sob and wail and he pleaded time and again for his father to stop. And Bungo ground his teeth and felt tears run down his own cheeks while he delivered one open-palmed strike after another to the lad’s backside. He’d seen this done to both Sigismond and Adalgrim before, and it never failed to break his heart. But to have to do it to his own son was different. Soon enough, every strike wrenched a sob from his throat, and still Bilbo wailed and wept.

At last, when the lad had begun to grow quiet and started shaking, Bungo carefully helped him to his feet. He helped him with his smallclothes and trousers, and then pulled the lad into a tight embrace. Bilbo made a wretched little noise in his throat and flung his arms around his father’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry, da. I’m so sorry.”

“So am I, my darling lad,” Bungo whispered, gently running his fingers through Bilbo’s brown curls. “So am I. I never wanted to do this to you, and I hope I shall never have to again.”

They remained there for a while, and Bungo continued to whisper reassurances to his son. Bilbo soon calmed, though he would not let go of his father.

“You do realise I shall still have to make good on my promise,” Bungo said at length. “I will have to take you home, Bilbo.”

“I know,” Bilbo mumbled. “May I say goodbye to Siggy before we go?”

“If Hildibrand will allow it, yes. But come now, we’ll need to start packing.”

Luncheon had come and gone by the time they were finished; Bilbo had pulled his little bag out into the sitting room and waited patiently for his father to finish, and Bungo had sent word along to the stables to get the carriage ready and to Hildibrand to see if Sigismond would be allowed to say goodbye to his cousin. There was only one more matter to take care of, and one that he dreaded.

As they dragged their bags into the entrance hall, they met Belladonna and Gerontius. The two Tooks both raised an eyebrow at the sight of the luggage and exchanged quick glances.

“Where on earth are you going?” Belladonna asked. “Why have you packed?”

“I am making good on my promise,” Bungo answered grimly. “I’ll be taking Bilbo home. He’ll be confined to his room for what would have been the remainder of this visit, so you needn’t worry about him not being punished harshly enough.”

“Oh, leave it, lad,” Gerontius sighed. “Of course he can stay. There’s no need for either of you to leave – it’s over and done with now, after all.”

Bungo’s eyes flashed, and the familiar, if unusual, feeling of the rather notorious Baggins temper began to rise within him. He glanced at his son, who stared up at him with wide eyes.

“Go and wait by the carriage, lad,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could. “I’ll be there soon. Do not wander off. Hildibrand and Sigismond may well be there already, and if they are, you may say goodbye.”

Bilbo hesitated only briefly before scuttling out the door. He could sense that something was about to happen that he wouldn’t like, and he’d had enough tension for one day. But as soon as he was out the door, Bungo rounded on his wife and father-in-law.

“If you call me _lad_ again, Gerontius, I can’t rightly say what I shall do,” he growled. “And how can both of you stand here and act so surprised? You know very well what I had told Bilbo, and I am nothing if not a hobbit of my word!”

“You’ve already taken care of it,” Belladonna stated lightly, though the confused look in her eyes somewhat betrayed her tone. “Bungo, he’s had his punishment.”

“A beating that he normally wouldn’t have gotten,” Bungo snapped back. He clenched his fists, wondering briefly at the unfamiliar wish to grab hold of his wife and shake her. The fact that she didn’t seem to understand why he was angry only made it worse. “A beating he _shouldn’t_ have gotten! I am aware that deferring to older relatives is generally how we deal with such matters, but that is done if the actual parent is not present!”

“Bungo, calm yourself,” Gerontius cried. His eyes were wide with surprise now; he’d never seen his daughter’s husband like this before. “For goodness’ sake, it’s over and done with already!”

For once, Bungo didn’t care about the hobbits gathering in the doorways, staring at them with wide eyes. He didn’t want to care either – no, this time he would have his say.

“It’s easy enough for you to claim so, when you were not the one giving my son the first spanking of his life,” he answered, his voice rising to a shout. “Do you have any idea how hurt he is, that neither of you cared to help him – or indeed that you were so willing to let someone strike him? Do you have any idea how it hurt _me_ to have to do that to him? Do you care either way? And before either of you claim that it isn’t as serious as I think, remember that I’ve never had to do this to him before! He has always heeded me, and I’ve never had to raise my hand against him! If you cannot raise a child without striking them, then perhaps the fault lies with you and not the child!”

Taking a deep breath, as though to force himself to calm down, Bungo glared at them. Belladonna looked shocked, and her eyes were filled with unshed tears. Gerontious looked as though he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, whether he ought to answer in kind or wait until his son-in-law was finished. There was only one way forward now, and Bungo intended to follow it. Words had always been his weapon of choice; it was perhaps above and beyond his status to scold the Thain, but it seemed that someone had to do it in the absence of old hobbit’s father, or indeed in the absence of old Mungo.

“I am the first Baggins since my great-grandfather to lay hand on a child, and it is all because you two couldn’t allow me to deal with my son in my own way,” he continued, lowering his voice only a little. He would still be heard by the gathered hobbits, and heard well. “I am not my father, my lord Thain, and I am not as wont as he was to argue with you. You are aware of this, and you have been since I married your daughter. You are also both aware of that my family does not make use of physical punishment. For both of you to stand before me and tell me that you will dole out physical punishment for my son if I will not, is nothing else than an abuse of position and power. And now you stand before me and tell me that it is nothing, that I should not get so worked up over it. It should come as no surprise to you then that I feel I have lost a significant amount of respect for both of you. I will bring Bilbo back to Hobbiton, as I promised. I said before that if he made trouble, it would be a year before I would allow him to come back here. But with how things stand now, it’ll be Highday the first of Summerfilth before that happens!”

He could hear the shocked cries from around the entrance hall, though he could not see who uttered them. But Bilbo’s maternal relations looked mutinous indeed at the thought of not seeing the lad again. Gerontius looked pale, as though his age had suddenly caught up with him all at once. And then there was Belladonna, staring at her husband with tears running down her cheeks. It stung Bungo’s hear to see her that way, though he reasoned he had little choice.

“Belladonna,” he said at last, hoping that his voice would remain steady. He hated to use his own position as Master of the Hill, as well as being her husband, against her. But he focused, or tried to focus, on the very faint feeling of humiliation he’d sensed when she had taken her father’s side. It would have to be enough to carry him through one last matter. “You may remain here for however long you should like. But I do not wish to see you in my smial before what was to be the end of this visit. Should you wish it, you may come and bid your son farewell before we leave. I will hear no arguments on this matter.”

She let out a broken noise and swayed where she stood, steadied only by her father’s firm hand at her elbow. And Bungo turned and walked away, not once looking back.

Bilbo stood by the carriage as he had been told, and Sigismond and Hildibrand stood nearby. The lads were staring mournfully at each other.

“Have you said goodbye yet, Bilbo?” Bungo asked. As the lad shook his head, the older hobbit gave him a nudge. “Then go and do so, and I’ll put your bag in the carriage.”

He had to smile weakly when Bilbo flew off like a stone from a sling and threw his arms around his cousin. It would not be fair to separate them when he didn’t know how long it would be until they could meet again, but he couldn’t see what else he was to do.

“I’d be surprised if half of Tuckborough didn’t hear your shouting,” Hildibrand commented grimly as he took the bags out of his brother-in-law’s hands and loaded them onto the carriage, despite Bungo’s meek protests. “I’d wager father is fit to burst.”

“He is not happy, no,” Bungo admitted reluctantly. “Though perhaps surprised rather than angry.” For a moment he thought of Belladonna again and wondered if he oughtn’t go back inside and urge her to come home with them. “Poor Bella,” he sighed. “I’ve never had to be so harsh with her.”

“Sometimes the harsh lessons are the only ones you learn,” Hildibrand stated; he gave Bungo a small smile and raised an eyebrow. “And Bella is pig-headed enough to not learn until she’s stuck her fingers in the fire at least twice. Father, though, he’s another matter entirely. Isengrim and Isumbras are the only ones who’ll argue with him anymore. But with them he only needs to remind them that he is their father, and that they live under his roof. He knows he just needs to be more stubborn than them to get what he wants. I think he may have gotten too used to not having someone around to knock him down a peg or two.”

“Someone?” Bungo asked, a small measure of mirth finally making its way into his voice. “You may as well say that he misses my poor old da, it’s as clear as daylight. A blind hobbit could see it.”

“Of course he does,” Hildibrand chuckled. “He doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.” Then he grew serious again and gave the Baggins a long thoughtful look. “You do not intend to keep Bilbo away forever, do you? Not truly?”

“I don’t know,” Bungo admitted. He felt so lost all of a sudden, and wondered when on earth his brother-in-law had become so perceptive, or had come to know him so well. “I am angry and hurt. I feel humiliated, though that’s only a small part of it. And Bilbo’s punishment is certainly not done with, though I’d sooner cut off my own hands than give him a thrashing again.” He gazed at his son and Sigismond. The lads were still clinging to each other and making tearful promises to write every day, if they were only allowed. “I need to consider it, Hildibrand. You and yours are of course always welcome in my smial – it is not you I am shutting out. But I think that perhaps it is not Bilbo who needs some time, but I.”

Though it took a while, father and son were soon on the carriage, waving goodbye to Hildibrand and Sigismond as the driver urged the ponies on along the road. Belladonna had not emerged from the Great Smials.

Indeed, it was to be nearly two months before Bungo laid eyes on his wife again. He’d had plenty of time to grumble about nosy neighbours; it was no surprise that half the Shire seemed to know that there had been a quarrel of some sort. He could scarcely go to the market without hearing whispers.

Bungo had been sitting on the bench by the front door, smoking his pipe, when a carriage rolled up the road. He recognised the coachman – Till, he thought the name was, the same young hobbit who had driven Bungo and Bilbo back to Hobbiton. The poor hobbit gave him a faint sheepish smile as he stopped before the gate, though he had little chance to do more before little door to the carriage swung open. Out stepped Belladonna, closely followed by her father. Bungo frowned and got to his feet. Given the terms on which they had parted, as well as how stubborn the Tooks were, he had not expected to see them before the turning of the year. And yet Belladonna opened the gate and came up the steps to the front door, stopping on the second-to-last step. She looked wary, almost uncertain of her welcome – though uncertain was a word only rarely used in relation to her. Bungo stood still, waiting patiently for either the Thain or Belladonna to speak. He briefly caught Till’s eye when he glanced at the carriage, and the hobbit rolled his eyes and shook his head. Bungo forced himself not to smile.

“I feel I must apologise,” Belladonna said at last, turning her gaze to the ground. “I crossed a line, and I should have known better than to do so.”

“That is not what you should apologise for,” Bungo answered steadily.

“I know.” She sighed deeply and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for stating that I would take our son over my knee. I’m sorry for going over your head. Again, I crossed a line, and I should not have done so.” She looked up again, hesitantly meeting his gaze. “Bungo, I feel awful, and I’ve felt awful since it happened. I was angry, though I know that is no excuse.”

“I know your temper, Bella.” The corners of Bungo’s mouth twitched into a small smile when she blinked, seemingly surprised at the shorthand use of her name. “And I do not doubt that you’ve had time to consider your behaviour and your words. I’ll welcome you under my roof again, provided that you apologise to our son – as sincerely as you have to me.”

“I do not know that I could give an insincere apology to him,” Belladonna sighed ruefully, though she gave her husband a smile in return. “But if you do not mind, I’d like to go and find him. Do you know where he is?”

“In my study. I set him to a few lessons earlier, so I’d wager he’s still pouring over the book I gave him to read.”

Moving quickly, Belladonna took the last few steps to her husband and embraced him, pressing a kiss to his cheek before she let go and hurried inside. Bungo, however, turned his gaze to the Thain. Gerontius still stood below the steps, gazing up at him with a somehow contrite expression on his face.

“It would be easy to merely repeat my daughter’s words,” he said slowly. “And yet, that feels insincere. Master Baggins, I wish to apologise to you, and to my grandson, for what I said and did. I fear my temper got the better of me, and my behaviour towards you and your son was and is unacceptable.” He took a deep breath and then exhaled forcefully. “I know your family’s stance on the matter. I know _your_ stance. And I should not have forced your hand, or behaved as though nothing was wrong.”

Had Bungo been younger or more inexperienced in dealing with the Thain, he would have told himself that gesturing for silence was insolent and a bad idea. As it was, he only smiled.

“All past harvests, Gerontius,” he said. “Consider your apology accepted, and be welcome in my home.” He held out his hand as the old hobbit came up the steps. “Though I will say, as I did to Bella, that you should apologise to Bilbo.”

“Aye, I would be glad to do so,” Gerontius stated, giving his son-in-law a relieved grin as he grasped his hand and shook it. “I suppose you aren’t angry anymore, then?”

“I’ve not been angry since I allowed Bilbo out of his room,” Bungo admitted with a laugh. “But come now, how about we help poor Till to get Bella’s bags out of the carriage? And perhaps, if you both could be persuaded, we might have some tea?”

“Not for me, thank you kindly, master Baggins,” Till called as he hopped down from the driver’s seat. “I’ll accommodate myself at the Ivy Bush for the night.”

“If you so insist,” Gerontius snorted. “But mind you use what coin I gave you for that! It’s more than enough for a room and what meals you’ll have, not to mention several ales. I’ll not be having words with you again about that!”

  **\--**

Bilbo rather thought that it went without saying that he’d continue the family tradition. For all that he indulged his Tookish blood a little more as he grew older, especially after his Adventure, he was still a Baggins. And a Baggins would be expected to treat children a certain way. It was something of a surprise to him that anyone still allowed their children to be around him, with the way people gossiped about the Mad Baggins of Bag End, but some of his relatives took him to task over that thought quite fast.

“The children adore you,” his cousin Adalgrim told him seriously once. “And they listen well to you. I’ll admit, I feel a little jealous over how easily you can get my little brood to heed you!”

“I threaten them with a lack of stories and everything else that makes them adore me rather than a paddling,” Bilbo deadpanned in response. But his forced expressionless mask rather broke, as he began to chuckle. “I confess I cannot fathom why, but they seem to think that a paddling is not as bad as a visit from me being boring.”

It certainly didn’t stop as he got older still, or when the children of his cousins had children of their own. He only rarely needed to be sharp with any child, knowing as he did how to wheedle them into doing what he asked.

It was during one of his visits to Whitwell farm, for once without his dear nephew Frodo, that he found an opportunity to give a little lesson to one of his younger Tookish cousins. Paladin, Adalgrim’s son, had remained on the farm since his sisters all moved away; his older sisters to the Great Smials, despite the rather harsh rule of Lalia the Fat, and his younger sister Esmeralda to Buckland. The farm had never quite lacked the rambunctious presence that was a Took-child. Paladin had four children of his own, three daughters and one little son, and they were as much a handful as Bilbo and his cousins had ever been.

The little lad Peregrin, or Pippin as he was known when he was not in anyone’s bad books, was especially so. He had more energy than any child Bilbo had ever met, and he never could keep still. It was no wonder that Paladin and Eglantine struggled to keep their son occupied and out of trouble, though he certainly never meant to get into trouble in the first place. Mischief simply found him – the fact that it was never out of malice was a mercy, albeit a very small one.

But when Bilbo returned to the farm for luncheon after a walk and found the little lad racing towards him and crying out for him, he felt no small sense of alarm.

“Hide me, cousin Bilbo,” Pippin cried. “Hide me!”

“Slow down there, lad,” Bilbo cried as Pippin’s small arms wrapped around his legs. “What on earth are you running from?”

Pippin didn’t even had a chance to open his mouth and respond before a bellow of Pippin’s given name sounded from the smial.

“Peregrin Took, if you do not get back here, I swear I’ll tan your hide so that you cannot sit until Yule!”

Paladin Took, the second of his name, had a rather notorious temper. Sometimes Bilbo wondered if Gerontius Took had somehow been reborn in small portions in each and every one of his descendants, and poor Paladin had simply ended up with the quick temper and the booming voice. Or perhaps, the Baggins reflected as he glanced at little Peregrin’s fearful face, he ought to place the word _poor_ before the names of Paladin’s children, or that of his wife.

“What did you do, lad?” he asked quietly.

“I was in his study,” Pippin admitted miserably. “He took my whistle yesterday, and I tried to take it from his desk, and I knocked over the inkbottle.”

“That isn’t so-“

“Over some papers I wasn’t supposed to touch.”

“Oh. Oh, dear.”

“I turned them over,” the lad stated. “Because I thought that maybe he wouldn’t notice.”

Bilbo sighed deeply and placed one hand on the child’s head, waiting patiently as Paladin exited the smial and came towards them. As much as Pippin certainly had a habit of getting into trouble, the situation reminded Bilbo a little too much of the reason for the single thrashing he’d ever gotten as a child.

“There you are,” Paladin said grimly. “You just wait until-“

“If you expect me to simply watch while you strike your son, Paladin Took,” Bilbo stated, stopping Paladin dead in his tracks, “you are sorely mistaken.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Bilbo,” Paladin snapped in response, shooting his older cousin a glare that would have had lesser hobbits diving for cover. But not Bilbo. While his cousin’s temper was certainly legendary, it did not quite stand up to that of a dragon – and having faced a dragon, Bilbo was certainly not about to run from a relative. “If you do not mind, I find that I must discipline my son.”

“I should not like to get involved in how you raise your children,” Bilbo answered. He crossed his arms and levelled a glare of his own at the Took. “But you are not striking any of them while I am here!”

“He needs to be taught a lesson!”

“And that can be done without violence! Confine him to his room, set him to do chores – I daresay he’ll learn his lesson well enough!”

Paladin ground his teeth and clenched his fists. Arguments he could handle – they were hardly new territory to him. But arguments with his oldest cousin, who had watched him grow up and knew him perhaps a little too well, that was quite a different matter.

“Walk away, Bilbo,” he growled. “If you don’t want to get involved in how I raise my children, then walk away.”

“I said I should not _like_ to get involved,” Bilbo corrected him grimly. “But I will, if you cannot see that your son is terrified of you!”

That gave Paladin pause. For a moment, confusion warred with anger on his face before finally giving way to dismay when he glanced at the child that clung to Bilbo. It was not that he’d never seen that look on his son’s face before – it was simply that he tended to steel his heart. But he was also never around others when he needed to give his son a paddling, and he had little to no memory of Bilbo ever being angry with him.

“Peregrin,” he said at length, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Go to your room and wait there. Do not attempt to sneak out, or it’ll be all the worse for you.”

Pippin’s eyes darted between his father and his old cousin. For all that he was but a child, he knew very well how to tell that there was a power-struggle at hand – and when his father was about to come out on the losing side. He scuttled away, hurrying towards the smial, and Paladin stared after him with a grim look on his face.

“Do you always challenge the authority of others with their children?” the Took asked when his son was finally inside. “Or is it merely us Tooks?”

“I am half Took myself, Paladin, as well you know,” Bilbo answered quietly. “I know you were raised much the same way, though I’ll thank you to remember that I stood on your side more than once when you roused your father’s ire.” He raised an eyebrow as Paladin winced at the reminder. “I seem to recall you saying that being put to work on the farm rather than getting a thrashing was the best thing your father could ever have done. Of course, I recall you loathed it at the time.”

“That shouldn’t come as a surprise,” Paladin snorted. “And if I thought Peregrin could be trusted to work without shirking, I would set him to the same.” He frowned and ran his hand through his hair. “Confining him to his room will only make him restless, and he’d sneak out no matter the consequence.”

“Perhaps a combination of the two, then?” Bilbo suggested. “He’ll work on the farm during the day – preferably under the watchful eyes of an adult, perhaps your own – and be confined to his room from teatime and until first breakfast. If done correctly, he’ll be too exhausted to sneak out, and he wouldn’t want to face another thrashing if he were to shirk his duties.”

“I wouldn’t have the time to watch him all the time,” Paladin answered thoughtfully. “I could set Griffo to watch him and see to what duties he should get, I suppose…”

“My only condition is that you do not strike him,” Bilbo stated, giving his cousin a small smile. “But I must say that I am glad you are reconsidering.”

“He didn’t mean to do it, of course.” Paladin groaned and looked away, ashamed of his explosion of temper. “I know he didn’t. But for heaven’s sake, he really must think before he acts.” He chanced a glance at his cousin’s face and grimaced at the sparkle of mirth in his eyes. “I know, I am hardly the right person to say that.”

“Indeed you are not,” Bilbo admitted, trying and failing to keep laughter away from his voice. “But allow me to give you another piece of advice. If you want Pippin to take this punishment to heart, tell him that he shan’t be invited to Bag End for mine and Frodo’s birthday unless he carries out his duties. Meaning, he mustn’t sneak out, and he mustn’t shirk any work set before him.”

“Then he wouldn’t get to see Merry until Yule,” Paladin said thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps that ought to be enough.” He gave the Baggins another shamefaced look. “You never cease to surprise, cousin. I’ve four children and you have none, and yet you seem to be the one who _ought_ to be a father.”

“Oh, I am quite content to be a bachelor,” Bilbo laughed. “Having little cousins and nephews and nieces was enough for my uncle Isengrim, and it is enough for me. But don’t you fret so, Paladin. You are every bit your father’s son, though you can’t see it yourself. You are a better father than I could ever be, so long as you reign in that temper of yours.”

And if Bilbo later that evening whispered to Peregrin just what he would get for his cousin’s birthday if he did well, at least Paladin would not find out until it was too late. But once the gift was given, Bilbo felt certain that Paladin would know he was being punished for losing his temper yet again; a small child learning to play the shepherds pipes would be more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Sprung partly from the fact that Balbo Baggins could hardly have been the first Baggins - it doesn't feel like it would fit. So this sort of grew from my trying to figure out exactly why the family tree begins with him.
> 
> \--Notes--  
> Fortinbras and Balbo: There are twenty-two years between them, and yet I have a feeling that they would get along fairly well. It feels that they would balance each other out. Note that this is strictly headcanon for myself, and there are no indications for canon that they should have known each other well or dealt much with each other.
> 
> Ages: In the section with the incident between Mungo and Gerontius, Bungo is 13 years old, Isembold is 17, Hildifons is 15, and Isembard is 12. Mungo and Gerontius themselves are 52 and 69, respectively. In the section that follows, Bilbo is 12, Bungo is 56, Belladonna is 50, and Gerontius is 112. And in the last section, Pippin is 8, Bilbo is 108, and Paladin is 65.
> 
> "Highday the first of Summerfilth": This is an expression used among hobbits to refer to something that would never happen. To begin with, there is no month called Summerfilth in the Shire Calendar. And secondly, after a reform of the calendar during the time of Thain Isengrim Took II, weekdays always fell on the same date - meaning that no month ever started with a Highday (Friday).
> 
> Regarding Isengrim: Isengrim canonically never had any children. He was in his nineties already when he took the office of Thain, and he died only ten years later, passing the office to his brother Isumbras. It is not said if he ever married, but I headcanon that he was not interested in marriage and remained a bachelor until his death.


End file.
